


Knots

by laugh_a_latte



Category: Be More Chill - Iconis/Tracz
Genre: Angst, Depressed Michael, Friendship Bracelets, I wrote this at at ungodly hour half asleep, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Other
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-04
Updated: 2019-05-04
Packaged: 2020-02-23 20:55:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,326
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18709810
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/laugh_a_latte/pseuds/laugh_a_latte
Summary: Michael distracts himself by making bracelets.





	Knots

**Author's Note:**

> This kind of references another fic I wrote called Bracelets. You don't have to read that one to understand this one at all (but I do recommend it for a little context), but if you have read it, just know this is like a tie-in :)
> 
> and PLEASE pay attention to the tags! <3

Michael is tying knots. He has three lengths of embroidery thread folded in half with a knot at the top. That knot is taped down to his history binder. Music is playing softly from his speakers.

He’s itching to turn it up, but he can’t wake his mothers.

Michael likes the sound the knots make when he pulls them tight. It’s almost a ripping sound, but not quite. It’s slightly off, just enough to hold Michael’s interest. _Rip._ Michael flicks one thread over another, brings it around and through the loop, and pulls. _Rip._

This bracelet is purple and red and blue. Michael didn’t choose the colors. They were just the first three skeins his fingers came in contact with when he reached into his box of thread an hour ago, too panicked to be making those all important choices. Michael did, however, choose to make a chevron pattern. It required a touch more focus, just enough to distract, and Michael needs to focus on something _else_ right now.

_Rip. Rip. Rip._

Before Michael knows it, the bracelet is long enough that it’s becoming hard to tie the knots tight. Michael blinks at it. He doesn’t want to mess a knot up. He’s always messing up a knot or two. Never quite perfect. He feels around for the duct tape, thrown somewhere on the bed behind him, so he can secure this length down and get back to listening to the knot’s music. What's playing over his speakers isn't loud enough anymore.

All his hand finds is his hoodie. He glances over his shoulder. No tape. Michael looks over the other shoulder. Still no tape.

Michael looks back at his bracelet. He needs to make more knots.

Michael stands up and looks at his bed, like the tape will magically appear. He holds his hand over the covers and focuses on the Force. Still no tape.

His hand drops to his side. Worth a shot, anyways.

The tape isn’t on his bedside table either, and it’s not on the floor next to his bed. It’s not behind the bean bags or under his dresser. 

Michael’s head hurts. He looks at his bed. It _has_ to be somewhere on his bed. Because if it’s not on his bed, that means it’s rolled under his bed, and Michael can’t look there.

Michael moves his backpack and shakes out his hoodie. He pulls his pillows off and throws his comforter around, praying it’ll roll out. All he gets is a mess.

Michael looks at the gap between his floor and his bed. 

It can’t be anywhere else.

All he has to do his bend down and look.

It’s not difficult. He just has to look. Michael takes a breath, trying not to think of what else is under the bed.

But that’s impossible, because that’s _all_ he could think about as he tied knots. That thought, a record on repeat blaring an ugly song. Each knot and _rip_ , a scratch that prevented the song from playing. And he’s all out of record scratches.

Just a glance, he thinks. He probably won’t even see the Walkman case if he’s quick about it.

Michael makes to get on the floor, but stops. 

Michael can’t remember where under his bed the case is. If Michael knew exactly where he put it last time, he could avoid accidentally seeing it. But Michael doesn’t remember, and he knows that if he sees it right now, that record’s song will only get louder.

Michael takes another breath. Just a peek. Just a glance.

Michael lowers himself to the floor. 

Michael can hear the blood in his ears as his gaze sweeps under the bed, and spots the tape.

Of course, it’s next to the case, and the blood is pounding.

Michael swallows and reaches for the tape. It’s just out of reach, but the case isn’t. His fingers land on top of it.

Michael means to move the case just a little so it knocks the tape toward him. He really does, but somewhere along the way, Michael forgets the plan, and the case is sitting on the floor in front of him.

To be fair, it did knock the tape back out in the process. So.

Michael puts his hand on the vinyl fabric. His brain is screaming at him to open it. The record’s speed is blinding. His hands are itching to get ahold of its contents. Every fiber of Michael’s being wants to open the case.

His picks it up. The faded letters _Stereo Walkman_ greet him. Michael’s hand is on the zipper, and he pulls slowly. It makes a nice sound. Almost a rip, but not quite. 

Closer than tying knots, he thinks. Better.

And, suddenly, everything Michael was repressing, trying so hard _not to think about_ breaks through and Michael can't think. Michael is back on his bed, in the mess of pillows and blankets and embroidery thread. He rips the zipper all the way open, and turns the case over on his comforter.

Four pieces of sharp metal slide out, unscrewed hastily from dollar store pencil sharpeners.

Michael’s chest hurts so bad, so quickly out of nowhere. His breathing comes out uneven as pulls bracelet after bracelet off his arm, revealing scarred skin beneath. His eyes sting.

He undoes clasps with ease and pulls sliding knots loose without a hitch. He slides the hard to remove ones out of the way. There’s no time to bother with them. His wrist feels so light without the bracelets weighing it down.

Michael’s hand moves to pick up the pencil sharpener. His fingers brush against the smooth metal as he carefully picks it up, but Michael stops. Even though that record is spinning at light speed, blaring loud ugly thoughts at Michael, there’s still one more stubborn scratch on it, fighting to stop the music.

“I need to you call me if you feel like doing this again,” it spells out. “Promise me, Michael.”

Michael shakes his head and drops the bracelets clutched in his fist. He covers his face with that hand. It’s cold.

Michael muffles his outburst in his palm. God _damn_ it, Jeremy.

Michael can’t call Jeremy. It’s two in the goddamn morning. And Michael knows Jeremy would just run over here in his stupid pajamas with this pathetic, hurt look on his face. Then Jeremy would be tired at school the next day and look sad and Michael doesn’t want to spend a whole day with Jeremy looking like that. Looking at _him_ like that.

Besides, he’s always bothering Jeremy with this kind of shit. Jeremy puts up with enough.

Michael rubs his eyes with his palms.

He could do it anyways and not tell Jeremy, like usual. He rarely tells Jeremy, and if he does it’s always because he feels so guilty afterwards that he can’t deal with it himself. Michael _knows_ he’ll feel guilty. He knows it, but there’s that other voice telling him that maybe _this_ time he won’t.

“God, shut _up,_ ” Michael drops his hands. He hears metal hit the floor.

Michael pulls himself up off the bed and bends down to pick it up. Michael stares long and hard at the duct tape, then picks that up, too.

Michael looks at the metal piece in his hand, rubbing his thumb on it’s side. He exhales hard, squeezes his eyes shut, and throws it on his comforter with the rest. The clatter is satisfying. He removes his hoodie from on top of his history binder and throws it over the lot. It's enough for now.

Michael settles back against his headboard with the binder propped up on his knees. He pulls a piece of tape from the roll. It’s way longer than necessary, but Michael doesn’t care.

He pinches the top of the strand with one hand, and pulls hard with the other, ripping the piece off.

The sound this time is just right.

**Author's Note:**

> This was rushed and written at an ungodly hour last night, so it is definitely not my most high quality fic, but I'm posting it anyways. *shrugs*  
> I wanted to write a Michael-only fic. Also sorry I keep writing Michael angst I really can't help it lol
> 
> (Also, I know I've been posting fics like everyday these last few days since I've been on break! Just fyi my next fic probably won't be out for a couple of days since I'm going off break, if you've been reading along.)
> 
> Your comments make me live! Constructive criticism is always welcome, too :)
> 
> Thanks for reading! <3


End file.
